


Death

by Jetlagden



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [4]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, I tried to make it sad, Paris - Freeform, Violence, athelangst, beheadings, season three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2229915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jetlagden/pseuds/Jetlagden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Athelstan could do was scream for Ragnar, feeling helpless like Ivar when he was trying to learn to walk, but even worse so. All he could do was hope like Gyda used to do when her father was away on raids to the west, but more. All he could do was pray like the monks did on sundays, but harder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Athelstan

**Author's Note:**

> I just really had to get rid of feels. I didn't use a beta nor did I do any research. Please excuse any mistakes, and if you see any major and disturbing ones, please point them out for me! 
> 
> I don't know how I feel about the very ending. But well, I tried. I hope you.. Enjoy?

They had captured him. The Frenchmen had found him when he got hit by an arrow and stumbled, and they had taken no time in taking him hostage. They were rough, rougher than Athelstan would like. They pushed him around, took his weapons, destroyed his shield, the new one Ragnar had let be made for him. It had a raven on it. "So you are never out of my or Odin's sight again," the King had said. It scared Athelstan to think that without the shield, that might just be true.

It wasn’t until they were in Paris they took his clothes. It wasn’t until in Paris they found the cross tucked away in a pocket and the markings on his hands. It wasn’t until in Paris he heard the whispers again.

_That man is an apostate._

There was never something good to come from that. And what else could he do but lie, when they brought him in front of the king? No, he had said, I am not. I am a well travelled Northman. He stayed quiet on the questions that might give him away, pretending he didn't know the language. What sealed his faith was the dumb mistake to mention England,and King Ecbert.

King Charles had contacted King Ecbert, asking if he had ever seen a darkhaired Northman with markings on his hands like Jesus Christ's. He had responded that yes, he had. Athelstan, an apostate monk from Lindesfarme who had betrayed him for the Northman, and never again looked him in the eye. He had been here last year, still, very intelligent man, is he with you?

Charles didn't respond. Instead he ordered to dress Athelstan in monkrobes and have him beheaded the day this king Ragnar and his warriors decided to attack. Treat his wounds, but only so he cannot die.

And so it happened. On the day a horn was heard and a scout came running in, shouting about how he had seen the Northman, shields raised and making noise, Athelstan, pale, cold, sweaty and mistreated, was taken from his cell in the dungeons. He had to be supported by the guards as he was driven through empty streets, nobody there to throw rotten fruits at him. Everyone had fled, trying to avoid the wrath of the northmen coming their way. Only the executor and a few soldiers were with him. Once they arrived at the empty square where all executions were held, Athelstan saw the king, seated on a horse, surrounded by even more soldiers. Shouldn’t they all be protecting the walls and canals around Paris? The sight of at least a dozen here gave him hope. Maybe Ragnar would be in time to save him, maybe a messenger from King Ecbert would arrive and tell the french king to stop it.

Blinking against the sunlight, robes itching on his dirty skin, bare feet blistering, Athelstan realised he did not want to die. He did not want to go to heaven, or hell, or Valhalla despite the glorious stories about the last one.

‘Please,’ he whispered, voice rough from weeks of not speaking. He attempted to take a step back, to get away from his capturers. ‘Please, let me go- I’ll do anything! Don’t… Don’t kill me, please,’ he said, not realising he spoke in Norse, voice louder now, almost yelling. It hurt his troath, as his breathing sped up until it was almost out of control. He tried to run, tried to jump off the stage, but the soldiers were just too strong for his weakened body. They got him down with one simple shove, all breath knocked out of him. Dark spots danced in front of his eyes, as Athelstan could feel how he was pulled up to his knees, hands tied around a block. He tried to struggle, but it was like his body had already given up. ‘No,’ he whispered again, still speaking norse, ‘No- Ragnar will come. He’ll save me.’ He refused to put his head down on the block, having seen the axe on the side. He knew what damage axes could do. He knew that with one swing, it would all be over.

‘Let him wait for his savior,’ the king called out, ‘Let him wait until he sees nobody will come.’ And so the executor took a step back after thrusting something in Athelstan’s hands. He dared to take a look, feeling cold metal, and by the gods, please let it be his armring… It wasn’t. He let out a small cry when he recognised his old cross, the one king Ecbert had given him.  ‘My ring,’ he whispered, ‘Where.. Where is it? I need it, Ragnar gave it to me, please...’ There came no answer, the soldiers chatting battle strategies and the weather, not even acknowledging the man clad in monkrobes kneeling at their feet, facing the empty square.

Athelstan never fell quiet. He was using up his energy, he knew it. He was mumbling prayers, to the Lord and to Odin, a mixture of both. He never blinked, he didn’t want to miss the moment Ragnar would be there…

After an hour, noises started to become louder, the soldiers grew restless, and Athelstan grew tired. He could feel his head sagging, until it was resting on the rough block. He quickly forced himself to look up again, knowing they would not chop his head off if he was holding it up.

If he had not done that, he would not have seen the King give a wave, and turn around. He would not have known the executor took a step closer and pushed his head down. He would not have seen the soldiers leaving the stage in favor of fighting and following their king.

All Athelstan could do was scream for Ragnar, feeling helpless like Ivar when he was trying to learn to walk, but even worse so. All he could do was hope like Gyda used to do when her father was away on raids to the west, but more. All he could do was pray like the monks did on sundays, but harder. And just when they pushed his head down, he saw a raven. Or well, not a literal raven. He saw Ragnar storming onto the square, covered in blood already, riding a horse that- hadn’t that horse just left the square, carrying a different king? Athelstan didn’t know.

He tried to surge up, but got smacked down by his tied hands and the executor. ‘Ragnar!’ he shouted, trying to keep his eyes on him. He would be saved, he would be safe. He would go back home… He clutched the cross in his hands, thanking all the gods he could come up with, rambling. The hope in him didn’t stop when he was pushed down. He  closed his eyes, waiting for Ragnar to scream his name and the sound of the executor dying, the sound of axes swooping… He would be safe.

‘Athelstan!’ he heard, and he just smiled, hope surging through him. He heard the sound of an axe. Ragnar would save him. He clutched the cross tighter, repeating that mantra in his mind.

_Ragnar will save him. All would be well. Ragnar will save him. Ragnar will sa-_

 


	2. Ragnar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short bit to wrap it up.

Ragnar was too late. He knew it the moment he had stormed onto the square where he could hear lonesome screams in an overly familiar voice  coming from. He was going as fast as he could, Floki and Torstein right behind him, finishing off any soldiers that would cause trouble. He jumped off the horse, trusting his own legs more, when he heard Athelstan shout his name again. ‘Athelstan!’ the king shouted back, already grabbing his battle axe, smeared with blood from others, to get to that hooded monster. He never got to an halt when said man pushed his Athelstan down again, and raised the axe. He just let out a loud noise he wasn’t even sure himself what it was supposed to be, and ran faster.

Just when he could make out details on Athelstan’s poisture, on what he could see from his face, his greasy hair, the cross necklace Ragnar hadn’t realised Athelstan still posessed, the ugly robes he was wearing, the axe came down. A head rolled off the stage, but Ragnar refused to look. He just launched himself at the stage, flinging his axe in the hooded figure’s man’s head, blinded by rage. He didn’t stop until he was without head too, and kicked it off, feeling disgusted. He stood there, and turned to look, seeing Torstein had sunken to his knees in front of the stage, arm dangling strangly at his side, while Floki had a furious expression on his face, and was mumbling to himself like he always did when he was planning something. You just never knew what until he would put it into action.

Ragnar looked up at the sky, the blinding sun shining down as if nothing as happened, and then aside. Athelstan’s body had fallen to the side, hands still tied around the block. The sight of it made him sick, but his stomach truly turned when he noticed the head lying right in front of Torstein.

He had to be strong, though. He couldn’t just break down, he was the leader, they were attacking Paris, he had respons- Just as quickly as they had come up, Ragnar dismissed those thoughts, let out a strangled cry, and delivered a kick to the stage. A piece of wood shattered, and he sank to his knees too, taking deep breaths,realisation sinking in.

His priest was dead. Never again would they share a moment of joy.. Why were the gods so mean to him? Why did they not favor him anymore? Why did they make him lose every single thing that he loved? Why did they kill the person that deserved to live the most?

Ragnar got up. He had to. He untied Athelstan’s hands, and took the chain from his hands. He put it around his own neck, before he lifted the body up. ‘Take the head,’ he said, voice strangely emotional, ‘We’re leaving. Forget about raiding Paris. We’re going back.’ He ignored Floki’s protests, taking the steps down the stage, and walked to the horse. He made sure to strap the body to it, axe in one hand, as he took the head from Torstein, and wrapped it up in the cloth of a flag.

‘I will have their heads,’ he promised, seemingly to noone, before starting to get out of the Paris, riding between Torstein and Floki, soon joined by more warriors of his side.

  
‘I will take you home, using all of their heads as a sail to get there. Every one of them, I promise, Athelstan.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo.. I'm not overly fond of the ending, to be honest, but well. It'll have to do,I want breakfast.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah. Let me know what you think!


End file.
